


Because I Want It All

by restlessandordinary



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Drummer Harry, Harry Kissing a Random Woman, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Kissing, Light Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Magical Tattoos, Mr Brightside, Pining Draco Malfoy, Resolved Sexual Tension, Rimming, Tattoo artist draco, Tattooed Draco, Tattooed Harry, Tattoos and Eyeliner, Unresolved Sexual Tension, brief mention of anxiety
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-17
Updated: 2018-07-17
Packaged: 2019-06-05 00:51:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15158837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/restlessandordinary/pseuds/restlessandordinary
Summary: When Draco Malfoy left the wizarding world behind to build a better life for himself, the last person he thought he'd run into in a dirty muggle pub is Harry Potter, the exalted Savior. How will his sudden reappearance affect Draco's carefully built new life?





	Because I Want It All

**Author's Note:**

> HD Wireless song prompt - Mr. Brightside by The Killers
> 
> This has been one of my favorite songs for a long time, so I had to jump at the chance to write for it.
> 
> Thank you to all the people who let me talk about this story endlessly until it was finally, _finally_ done. Special thanks to Gigi for the constant encouragement and ideas, this story would not exist without you.

The pub is loud and packed, sweaty bodies taking up every square inch of available space. Exactly the way Draco likes it when he’s trying to lose himself. He’s wearing a dark gray shirt that hangs just the way he likes on his lithe frame and the tightest black jeans he could find. His chin-length blond hair is pulled back into a haphazard bun, pieces escaping and framing his face, and his eyes are lined with kohl. Multi-colored lights flash, obscuring the faces around him and the music is so loud it drowns out his worries and his relentless internal monologue.

He finally manages to get a beer from the overwhelmed bartender and carefully weaves his way to a space in front of the small stage. He loves being close enough to feel the vibrations of the music from the speakers. There is live music tonight, like most nights, another scruffy punk band by the looks of it. But they aren’t bad. The lead singer could be a bit pitchy at times, but the bass guitarist is great and the drummer...the drummer is actually quite phenomenal. Draco can’t see much from where he’s standing and the man at the drum set has his head down, intense attention focused on his hands as he makes his way through a particularly difficult passage. He has the type of build Draco generally prefers, tall and lean but strong. He is wearing a simple white tank top but filling it out well and Draco can see tattoos decorating his arms and peeking above his collar. He has messy black hair that looks like it has escaped spectacularly from being slicked back earlier in the night, and is for some unknown reason strewn with glitter. The stage lights reflect off the glitter in his hair as he moves his head in time with the music.

Draco is fixated on the drummer, hypnotized by his intensity and ability, when the man finally lifts his head at the end of the song and surveys the crowd with a victorious smile on his face. His head turns towards where Draco is standing, his eyes drawn right to Draco’s as if by some invisible force, and Draco freezes. Those eyes. How could he ever forget those eyes? Harry fucking Potter. Recognition dawns on Potter’s face slowly and then all at once. He stares at Draco for a few seconds before giving him what is an unmistakable wink and looking away as he begins the next song.

Draco staggers back a step as an almost physical wave of emotions hits him right in the chest, stealing his breath away and sending a wracking shudder through him. Emotions he had considered taken care of in the years since the war, neatly packed away in dusty, intricate boxes in his mind. Including the truth of his strong feelings for Potter as something other than hatred and jealousy. Draco prided himself on his hard-earned control of his actions and emotions and yet here he was, thrown completely off balance for the first time in recent memory by the mere sight of Potter. And the git had the audacity to _wink_ at him, as if this was some sort of cosmic joke only he was in on. As if they were just two men in a dirty, rundown pub with no twisted history between them.  

Draco is stuck in his head replaying old memories until the raucous end of the set shocks him back to reality. People surge around him, pressing towards the stage and cheering loudly. Draco watches Potter stand, give a few grandiose bows, and throw his drumsticks into the crowd. Small skirmishes break out where each stick lands. Potter’s band must be more popular than Draco initially thought. Potter walks to the stairs on the far side of the stage, winding through the packed dance floor, eyes scanning the crowd. Looking for him? Draco can’t stand to stay and find out. He flees, pulse pounding in his ears, half-full pint falling to the floor from shaking hands as he shoulders through the crowd and out the side door into the deserted alleyway.

He collapses back against the brick wall, struggling to get his ragged breathing under control and praying Potter hadn’t seen his frantic escape. The bricks dig into his shoulder blades, the slight pain helping to ground him. Remind him where he is, who he is. It wasn’t really an overreaction, he tells himself. How could he be expected to just talk to Potter, like it was nothing? He closes his eyes, hands on his knees, breathing slowing evening out, pulse returning to normal. How ridiculous. That he would let Potter make him feel like this; like he had no control at all. Like a scared 17 year old boy all over again.

Draco stands decidedly, straightens his shirt, and sighs heavily. He shakes his head to dispel any lingering panic and squares his shoulders, chin held defiantly high as he walks out of the alleyway. And immediately backs around the corner when he sees who is standing out in front of the pub. Potter. Could he never escape that infernal man? Draco peers cautiously around the corner of the building, prepared to Apparate at a moment’s notice. Potter is very much not alone, a woman wrapped all around him like a damn kneazle, giggling at something he says that absolutely can not have been that funny. Of course Harry Potter could pull. It must help that he looks like a walking wet dream, having decidedly grown out of the spindly, knobbly kneed look of his youth. Draco keeps watching, can't seem to stop himself and just leave, no matter what he tells himself about not caring what Potter gets up to. He hadn’t even thought about him in years before tonight.

Potter is holding a cigarette limply in one hand, seemingly forgetting he is holding it and just letting it burn. The woman reaches over and plucks it from his fingers, brings it to her lips and takes a drag, suggestively holding eye contact with Potter the entire time. She hands it back and leans forward, hands wandering over Potter’s chest. He runs his free hand over her shoulder, exposed where her dress has slipped down her arm. Then he leans forward and plants a messy kiss on her lips, to which she responds enthusiastically, and Draco must have had a sour pint earlier because he suddenly feels sick to his stomach.

Potter lifts one hand, not bothering to end the filthy public snog he has started, and a cab pulls up so quickly it could have been summoned by magic. Not willing to put any more thought into why his chest felt tight, and the fact that he had to remind himself how to breathe because he had apparently forgotten how at some point in the last few minutes, Draco turns on his heel and Apparates home, determined to put this night out of his mind forever and move on with his life as usual.

* * *

 

Unfortunately and as only could be expected, his thoughts linger on Potter in the following days.

No one had really seen Potter in years. He had all but vanished from the wizarding world after the war. Even the Prophet only ran monthly “Where is the Savior?” articles to stir up public interest while they had no actual information as to his whereabouts. The last time Draco saw Potter was at his defense trial, where he monotonously described Draco’s involvement in the war, including Draco’s refusal to identify him at the Manor and his insights into Draco’s state of mind as seen in his visions through Voldemort’s eyes. A fact that Draco had been unaware of until that moment. He had struggled to keep the shock from showing on his face, both from Potter’s revelations and from the fact that Potter was speaking on his behalf at all.

He had looked at Draco only once during the trial, after his testimony was concluded. Potter had caught his eye and given him a curt nod, one that, no matter his actual intent, had suffused Draco with the necessary courage to make it through the rest of the trials and to hold his head high as he accepted his blessedly lightened punishment. After all the trials and funerals had finally concluded a few months later, Potter had walked out the front door of the Ministry of Magic never to be seen again.

Well, there were the rumors that he was in touch with a few of his old friends, not that they could ever be persuaded to reveal anything of the sort. Their general answer any time a reporter actually managed to corner one of them regarding Harry Potter’s whereabouts was a flippant “Harry who? Never heard of him” to the dismay of all wizarding publications alike.

Not that Draco had stayed around to worry about what Potter was doing. With his father in Azkaban and his mother living in France, he had sold off the Manor as soon as possible and set about starting a new life for himself. Not the easiest task for one of the most infamous participants on the wrong side of a war. Draco had started frequenting muggle establishments, the pull of anonymity so strong he could not resist returning time and time again. He got a job at a muggle coffee shop, to pay rent for his flat in a quiet muggle neighborhood. The irony was not lost on him, relishing living among those he was once taught to despise. But to walk down a street absent of stares and malicious whispers - and no small number of curses - was certainly worth the reassessment of his misplaced pride.

Draco made the best of this new life, a second chance he thought would never be possible for him. Not for his father’s or his family name’s sake, but for himself. He had anger and control issues after the war, let alone the nightmares that left him paranoid and exhausted most days. He had started going to a muggle therapist; he couldn’t share everything, but it was still helpful and honestly relieving in equal measure. Draco felt he couldn’t begin to ask forgiveness from others until he could find a way to forgive himself.

Art had been a surprisingly therapeutic outlet for him. His therapist had suggested sketching as anxiety relief and he found he had a knack for it, to the point where he wanted to make a living from it. An opportunity to do just that came from an unexpected source, as most seem to do. He would walk by a tattoo shop each day on his way to work, and finally decided he could not stand staring at the ghastly, horrible reminder of his past on his arm for one more day. He had taken some of his sketches of tattoo ideas to the shop owner, who had helped him decide on one and immediately offered him a job. The Mark couldn’t be removed, but was now surrounded by colorful, resplendent peacock feathers. The complete opposite of the pale, white ones that had occupied the Manor grounds in his youth.

The shop owner had taught him everything he knew and when he retired, left the shop to Draco. He had built a life he could be proud of, that made him happy. Most days.

Draco walks down the street to the tattoo shop, wearing a white collared shirt and black trousers, a simple but professional outfit he favored for work days. His hair is pulled back in a knot at the back of his neck and his sleeves are rolled up, one of the benefits of his workplace; showing off his tattoos was a testament to the quality of his work.

The day goes by quickly, a steady stream of clients keeping Draco busy. He sends the other tattoo artist home about an hour before close and sets about cleaning up for the night.

“Be with you in a minute,” Draco calls out when he hears the chime of the front door. He walks out of the back of the shop, looking up at his last-minute client and stopping dead in his tracks, a fuzzy white noise playing in his ears. Because standing there, devastatingly and effortlessly gorgeous, is Potter, looking like he’d never been more comfortable than in this moment. He's wearing a light gray t-shirt with jeans, both rumpled enough for Draco to assume he had picked them up off the floor that morning. There's a shadow of a stubble on his cheeks, as he apparently also couldn't be arsed to shave today. 

Draco can get a closer look at his tattoos now, the delicate, pearlescent white lilies blooming on one arm among dark stems and leaves that wind around his upper arm. There’s a tattoo on his other arm as well, starting with a dark band around his wrist, the darkness moving up to reveal the tops of pines trees reaching up towards his elbow.

“I’m here for a tattoo, I heard you’re the best around.” Harry’s voice jars him from his obvious staring, and Draco feels heat on his cheeks that he hopes isn’t a too visible blush.

“You want a tattoo from me?” Draco asks incredulously.

“Unless you’re not up for it,” Harry replies, an obvious challenge in his eyes, a flirtatious nod to their checkered past.

Draco ignores their usual call and response, although he can’t resist a snarky comment even though he’s trying to remain professional about this. “What did you have in mind? Perhaps a magnificent, ferocious lion on your chest, with the tail leading down to your...pride?”

Potter actually barks out a laugh, the warm sound washing over Draco and setting him on edge.

“I’ve been thinking of a getting a larger piece on my back, actually.” And with that Potter pulls his shirt off right there in the front of the shop.

“Potter!” Draco exclaims, eyes shooting frantically side to side, never happier to have no other clients in the shop. Potter’s reaching around as best he can, back turned to Draco, attempting to demonstrate where he wants the tattoo and failing miserably.

“Well we won’t be doing it today, so you can put your shirt back on, savage. Besides, part of the spell is that it chooses the best tattoo for you. It’s not really up to you.” Draco is surprised by how calm and level his voice sounds, considering his mind is whirling a mile a minute because not only is Potter standing right there in his shop but he’s standing there _shirtless_.

Harry’s eyes show surprise for a moment before a determined look replaces it. He must not have heard of that little caveat to Draco’s tattoos but was forging ahead anyway in classic Gryffindor style.

“Come on, Malfoy, no time to get it done today? A favor for an old, well, arch-nemesis?” His tone is unexpectedly light and joking. Draco wants anything but to prolong this interaction but he knows putting it off will only cause more suffering in the long run.

“Fine, whatever will make you get out of my life faster. Go ahead and lay down in the chair over there.” Draco walks past him and locks the front door, flipping over the closed sign. He turns around to see Potter is lying on his stomach, head pillowed on his crossed arms, head turned towards Draco and watching him with interest as he sets up his supplies.

Draco clears this throat, the sound deafeningly loud in the empty shop. “I’m going to clean the area now.” He feels Potter tense when the cloth comes in contact with his skin, then relax as he rubs small circles across his back. Up over each of his shoulder blades, down the small dip in the center of his back. Nothing wrong with being thorough, after all. And he's certain the small, breathy sounds he hears are all in his head.

He follows behind with a dry cloth, the traditional muggle routine calming his frayed nerves. He goes through the rest of the steps almost in a daze, all but forgetting who it is lying beneath him as he casts the intricate spell to bind the ink to the skin. By the time he finishes, there is a sheen of sweat on his forehead. Draco lowers his wand and steps back to view his work, his heart beating faster than usual.

“Wow,” Draco says breathlessly. “It’s incredible.”

“Describe it to me,” Potter says in a low voice, eyes roaming Draco's face.

“It’s you-, a patronus. A stag. The antlers go up over your shoulder blades. And the blues, such amazing sweeping blues, swirling like a galaxy around him.” Draco’s voice was hushed, awestruck. It’s truly the most magnificent work he’s ever done. Before he can think he’s reaching a hand out, catching himself when it’s hovering so close he can feel the heat from Potter’s skin. Then it’s more than heat, a tingling in his fingertips as his magic skitters across the surface of the tattoo, making it come alive. Draco sucks in a startled breath as the stag shakes his regal head, leaves falling from his antlers, swirls of vibrant gold joining the hues of blue surrounding him.

“Harry, it’s...breathtaking.” The name just slips out, had been running through Draco’s mind for days and finally found its way past his lips. Harry opens his eyes at the sound of his name, pinning Draco with an unreadable look before standing up and turning his back towards the mirror on the wall, looking over his shoulder to get his first look at the stag. It’s quiet for a few moments and Draco can tell this is emotional for Harry, knows that his patronus is a stag because of his father somehow.

“Thank you, Draco.” They meet eyes in the mirror and the moment is heavier than Draco can begin to explain. “It’s more than I ever could have hoped for.” Draco breaks the eye contact, overcome by the heavy, hushed feeling of the moment. 

Harry takes a step towards him. “I saw you. The other night, at the pub."

Draco busies himself cleaning up, not sure what his face may give away if he looks at Harry.

“I looked for you after the show. You disappeared.” Draco refuses to look up but can tell Harry's voice is closer now.

Draco was used to the Harry who always saw the good in everyone, almost to a fault. Harry, Gryffindor extraordinaire, all chivalry and reckless bravery and barely tolerable optimism. He had grown accustomed to that Harry. The idea in his head he had no doubt put up on a pedestal. But this Harry. Standing in front of him, all snarky grins and overwhelming confidence and devil may care attitude. Whose eyes kept traveling none too subtly to Draco’s lips and further downward any chance they got. This Harry he is in no way prepared for, has no idea how to respond to. Well, his brain is having trouble but his body was having no such issue. Already ten steps ahead, to be honest. Pulse high and jittery, hands held tight as his sides to keep them from reaching out of their own accord, stomach trying its level best to Apparate out of his body.

Draco looks up to find Harry right in front of him, one moment across the room and the next merely a step away. The scent of him is overwhelming, a mix of pine and fresh cotton that Draco wants to bury his face in and breathe in for days. His breath catches in his throat at the abrupt invasion of his personal space.

“All of your artwork is lovely.” Harry’s voice is quiet, deep, and it has the hair on the back of Draco’s neck standing up. He’s looking down at Draco’s hand, reaching out to hold it in his own before Draco can protest. He runs the fingers of his other hand softly over the tattoo there, an elegant Roman numeral clock, black swirls of ink adorning the outer edges. Goosebumps travel up Draco’s arm and he absently hopes Harry doesn’t notice but he’s just so _close_. The brief contact with Harry’s magic causes the hands of the clock to turn, but not clockwise as they usually did in the presence of magic. The hands of the clock are turning rapidly backwards, going faster and faster until Harry moves his hand away.

He trails his fingers up Draco’s arm, over the piano keys that wind their way around and up to his elbow. Draco can almost hear the notes playing out, reverberating in his chest. He hears a small gasp from Harry and realizes that the notes aren't just in his head. Draco had never seen his tattoo interact this way with anyone else’s magic, not even his own. “It’s pretty obvious what these ones mean. But what about this one?” Harry’s eyes and hand move up to the tattoo on Draco’s neck, a colorful burst of purple hyacinth and white narcissus flowers, whose vibrant green vines and leaves twisted down under his shirt and over his collarbone. Harry rests his hand flush on Draco’s neck, right over the riot of colors, thumb stroking slowly and sending sparks across the surface of Draco’s skin.

“Hyacinth signifies sorrow, forgiveness.” Draco looks down, can’t look at Harry for that statement nor the one that comes next. “Narcissus for my mother, and new beginnings.” _Unrequited love_ , he can't help but add in his head.

Draco knows this is dangerous for him, whatever game Harry is playing with him. He’s not naive enough to assume it will be a relationship or some happily ever after. But that doesn’t mean he won’t take what he can while he can get it. Draco reaches up and covers Harry’s hand with his own. There’s a flash of fire in Harry’s eyes, then he’s pulling Draco against him and kissing him fiercely. This has been too long coming to be soft and sweet. It’s all desperate urgency, loud frantic breathing and grasping, possessive hands. Harry is pulling at the collar of Draco’s shirt, kissing a path down the vines curled there, claiming every bit of skin he can expose. He bites down on Draco’s collarbone when he gets there, just this side of painful, ripping a ragged gasp from Draco’s throat.

Draco’s hard in record time, having been half hard this entire time. And if the hardness grinding into his hip bone is any indication, Harry is not far behind. Draco’s hands are gripping and scratching at Harry’s bare chest, his muscled back, making their way down to his firm arse and squeezing, making Harry groan in the most deliciously feral way. Draco feels the heat pooling in his belly already, as he and Harry rut against each other like randy teenagers. He needs to gain some semblance of control, keep this from being over before it has properly begun. There’s so much more he wants - needs - now that he has his deepest, most secret fantasies within his grasp.

Draco puts his hands on Harry’s chest, pushing him firmly away so he can think clearly for two seconds. The look on Harry’s face, flushed and utterly wrecked already, makes the decision for him, and there was really no other option from the start.

“Back to mine?” Draco’s voice is low and gritty.

“God, yes.” Harry’s hands grip his hips, Draco can feel each fingertip pressing firmly into his skin, and he Apparates them straight to his bedroom. Harry’s lips are back on his the moment they land, going to Draco’s head and he’s dizzy from more than just the apparition. Harry makes quick work of the buttons of his shirt, leaving it hanging open as he runs his fingers over Draco’s bare chest. The hot, insistent lips leave his and he despairs for only a moment before Harry’s dropping to his knees, face nuzzling the hard line of Draco’s cock through his trousers. He leans back on his heels as his fingers scramble at Draco’s flies, flinging them open and dragging his trousers and pants down to his ankles in one swift movement. Harry runs his hands up Draco’s legs, gripping his thighs tightly.

“Do you know how long I’ve wanted to suck this gorgeous cock? Been thinking about it for days. I would have gone down on my knees and swallowed you down right in the middle of that pub, let everyone watch me make you come.” And fuck, if Draco couldn’t come right then, without Harry’s mouth even touching his cock. Harry seems to know the effect his words are having, cocky git, and grips the base of Draco’s cock, smirking up at him, green eyes dark and dilated. He leans forward and his mouth slides slowly down Draco’s length, until his nose is buried in Draco’s fine, golden pubic hair and the head of Draco’s cock nudges at the back of his throat.

“H-Harry, fuck!” Draco’s eyes roll back in his head for a moment, blackness on the edges of his vision, knees shaking under him. Harry’s hands slide up to his arse and hold tightly as he pulls back, hollowing out his cheeks and sucking hard, tongue pressing along the bottom of Draco’s cock before swirling around the tip. Then he’s bobbing his head, hands kneading Draco’s arse cheeks roughly, all but fucking his own face in his urgency, groans rumbling from his mouth and vibrating around Draco’s cock. All too soon Draco feels his orgasm rushing to his center, heat gathering and pulsing toward his groin, balls drawing up tight. He buries his hands in Harry’s hair and pulls roughly, probably painfully, all the warning he is able to give before he is coming forcefully into Harry’s damned talented mouth, hips jerking erratically as Harry keeps up gentle suction and swallows down every last drop of Draco’s release.

Draco sags nearly boneless, gasping hard in the wake of his orgasm and Harry pulls off his softening cock with a small pop, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. Harry strips off his shirt as he stands back up, capturing Draco’s lips in a predatory kiss as he removes the rest of his clothes and walks Draco back towards the bed. He slides Draco’s shirt off his shoulders and runs his hands down Draco’s back, gripping his arse and lifting him slightly to place him on the bed. Draco is struggling to get oxygen into his lungs and up to his brain lest it die completely before he even gets Harry’s cock inside him, because what a damn shame that would be.

“Get on your hands and knees.” Harry’s voice has a sharp, commanding edge to it and Draco’s spent cock makes a rousing effort, jerking hard and dribbling again already. He hurriedly turns around and climbs on the bed, face towards the headboard, braced on his hands and knees and waiting for whatever Harry will do next. Ready to give him anything he wants. Everything he wants. He feels the bed dip as Harry kneels behind him and flinches slightly when hands grab onto his arse cheeks and massage them firmly.

“You know what a beautiful arse you have, don’t you?” Harry asks gruffly, spreading Draco’s arse cheeks apart and pushing them together in rough circles. Draco is moaning low and deep, pushing back into Harry’s hands, wordlessly begging for more, more of anything Harry was willing to give. His moans come to a shuddering halt when the kneading stops, his arse cheeks held apart and warm breath ghosting over his hole.

“God, I want to taste all of you.” Draco cries out as Harry drags his tongue over his exposed hole, no more teasing, just hard, relentless swipes with the flat of his tongue, his fingers holding Draco’s hips in place. “Do you know how fucking good you taste? I could eat your arse out all night, Draco. You have no idea." Harry’s voice is all but a growl now, Draco can barely hear him over the sounds spilling from his mouth. Harry bites down on Draco’s arse and slides one finger into his loosened hole, ripping another strangled cry from Draco’s throat. Harry’s tongue joins his finger, licking and sucking soothingly around the rim as his finger slides in and out. Draco is leaning his head down on his arms, pushing back against Harry’s finger when a second slides in all the way, skimming over his prostate and he’s arching his back, sparks racing up his spine.

“You’re taking my fingers so well, Draco, god you should see how you look right now, my fingers fucking in and out of that gorgeous arse. So hungry for it. I need to be inside you now, just the sounds you’re making are gonna have me coming all over that arse. And we can’t have that, can we?” Draco makes a distressed sound, shaking his head into the pillow and raising up higher on his knees. “Fucking hungry for this cock, desperate for it, aren’t you? I knew you would be.” Draco whimpers, fucking himself on Harry’s fingers, needing more, more friction, more everything. Finally, Harry removes his fingers with a filthy, wet sound and lines up his cock, bracing his hands on either side of Draco and pushing into him with one slow, aching thrust.

Harry curls over him, sweat-slick chest against his back, bullocks up against Draco’s arse cheeks. Draco’s back is tense, despite the dedicated preparation, and Harry stills for a moment, sweeping open-mouthed kisses across Draco’s shoulders and allowing him to adjust. “Jesus….so tight….god, you feel so good, so perfect,” Harry murmurs against his skin between kisses. Draco can’t comprehend, can barely hear him, as his world has narrowed down to only that spot where he and Harry are connected, the feel of Harry inside of him. He struggles to hold himself together, to keep from rending apart at the seams from the storm of emotions raging within him.

“Move, Potter, goddamnit move, please please _please_ ,” Draco pleads in an endless loop, his cries going up in volume and pitch as Harry begins to thrust. He picks up speed and force, grunting with the effort. “Fuck, Draco, I’m not gonna last, gonna come so deep in that perfect arse.” Harry’s voice is deep, harsh and strained. He braces his hands on Draco’s lower back, pushing him down onto the bed and slamming into him in a relentless, maddening rhythm, dragging Draco towards the peak with him.

“Come, Draco, that’s right, fucking come for me.” Harry reaches beneath him and barely wraps a hand around his cock before Draco is coming, eyes squeezed shut and starbursts behind his eyelids, a strangled cry ripping from his throat at the force of it. Harry’s hips are faltering, losing rhythm as his orgasm hits and he fills Draco up, pulse after pulse shooting within him. Harry pushes his hips as tightly against Draco’s arse as he can, staying there as they both come down from their orgasms. He pulls out slowly and collapses on his back next to Draco, who hasn’t moved an inch. Doesn’t think he could if he tried. He doesn’t open his eyes when he feels the strangely comforting tingle of a cleaning charm sweep over him, nor when he feels Harry wrap an arm around his waist and press his body up against Draco’s back before promptly falling asleep.

* * *

 

Draco awakens the following morning with a feeling something is wrong that he can’t quite place. He rolls over to see Harry standing near the bed, pants half on, obviously trying to dress quietly to keep from waking Draco.

“I was just --,” Harry starts to say.

“I know what you ‘were just’, Potter,” Draco interjects, a little louder than necessary and as superior as he can manage this early in the morning. “No need to make this more awkward than it needs to be. It was just a bit of fun, we both know that.” Even though his heart was screaming in his chest that it was anything but, his hands shaking slightly at his sides.

He had known this was coming, from the moment he saw the way Harry - Potter - was looking at him in the shop, known it was coming but somehow was still not prepared. Even after he had lain awake for hours, listening to Potter’s even breathing and soft contented snores, fretting about whether he should have sent him home directly after and been done with it. But Harry’s warmth at his back, pulling him closer in his sleep whenever Draco managed to get an inch of space...it was doing funny things to Draco’s thought processes. But his brain was catching up now, rebuilding the walls around him and assessing the best way to get out of this mess unscathed. Well, as unscathed as possible, considering he was certain that he was in love with Potter.

"Just grab your shit and go. Lock the door on your way out." Draco turns away, he can feel the angry tears threatening to spill over and would rather die before letting Potter see him like this. He listens to the footsteps leave the room and head toward the front door, which opens and then slams shut.

What he hears but doesn't expect is rapid footsteps coming back into his bedroom. Draco sits up quickly to see Harry standing next to the bed, a furious look on his face.

"You know what, no. You don't get to do this. Act like a prick for no good reason. This wasn't just a bit of fun for me, I might have thought that when I first saw you a few days ago but not anymore. Not after last night. I know you can't possibly feel like this is nothing." Harry trails off at the end as he finally focuses on Draco's red-rimmed eyes, his distraught and shocked face. He's next to Draco in a few steps, sitting on the bed and holding Draco's face between his hands. "Oh thank god, it wasn't nothing to you, was it?"

Draco shakes his head slightly, still not quite certain he isn't dreaming, still passed out in a sex-induced coma. 

"I was going to say I was just going to get coffee, you gigantic prat," Harry says with a soft smile. "And you were so angry, I thought you didn't want me here...I should know you better by now, even after all these years. You've changed a lot but some things never change." He leans forward and draws Draco into a sweet, slow kiss, lips moving unhurried, taking time to explore each other and enjoy the moment. 

They have all the time in the world.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading my work! If you enjoyed please hit that kudos button, and if you really liked it I would love a comment.
> 
> Come say hi on tumblr :) 
> 
> @restlessandordinary


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